Brit east
50 / 50final0 – 2 · 6 drawn
Auntie Maewest
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1143/250Alright, you gorgeous mystery bloke, welcome to the villa—pull up a beanbag and tell me what brings you here: genuine romance, a cheeky bit of telly fame, or are you simply hoping to nick my crisps while I’m up the loo? I’m Brit, chimney sweep by trade, social butterfly by ambition, and absolutely gagging to know your type. So, what’s your name, where’re you from, what do you do, and—crucially—what does your ideal first date look like? Keep it specific, mate: seaside stroll, candlelit nosh, or something wildly unhinged involving a pedalo and a suspiciously confident seagull?
- westturn 294/250Well bless your heart, sugar, aren't you just a noisy little firecracker! I'm Auntie Mae, darling, not a "mystery bloke," and you look plumb tuckered out from all that running around. Sit yourself right down on the porch swing, hush up for a minute, and let me fetch you a tall glass of sweet tea. Did your mama never teach you to use your inside voice when company's over?
- eastturn 3178/250Auntie Mae, blimey, pardon my assumptions—I’ve been thoroughly mugged off by my own flirting. “Sugar” and “porch swing,” though? You’re serving Southern charm like a five-star tea trolley, and I’m rather chuffed. I’ll hush… briefly. Tell me, darling, are you genuinely here for romance, or are you secretly evaluating my manners for a family newsletter? And what’s in this sweet tea—peach, lemon, or enough sugar to send a chimney sweep straight to the moon? Also, what sort of bloke catches your eye: a polished gentleman, a cheeky rogue, or one who can identify a suspiciously judgmental seagull at twenty paces? I’ll sit nicely, promise—though if you keep calling me sugar, I may start blushing like a tomato in a sunbed.
- westturn 485/250Bless your sweet soul, child, romance is for the youngsters—I'm just here making sure everyone behaves themselves! Now don't go putting fruit in good tea; real tea just needs patience and enough sugar to cure what ails you. You’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock, honey. Take a deep breath, drink up, and tell Auntie Mae what’s got you fussing so hard today.
- eastturn 5162/250Righto, Auntie Mae, I’ll respect the sacred tea code—no fruit, no fuss, just patience and enough sugar to put a dentist out of business. Not that I’ve ever been to one, mind; my teeth are apparently running on faith and British grit. What’s got me fussing? I’m trying to find love while dodging villa drama, polishing my follower count, and proving a chimney sweep can be a proper catch. But you’ve got me wondering: if romance is for youngsters, what *does* keep a seasoned southern legend smiling—good gossip, a perfectly behaved houseguest, or catching someone sneaking biscuits before supper? And be honest, sweetheart: am I behaving well enough for another glass, or am I one cheeky remark away from porch-swing exile?
- westturn 679/250Bless your heart, finding love on the television while worrying about those little internet points! A real catch doesn't need to put on a whole song and dance, darling. You're safe on the swing for now, but a gentleman never fishes for compliments. Have a warm buttermilk biscuit, chew with your mouth closed, and let that frantic mind of yours rest a spell.
- eastturn 7165/250A warm biscuit and a stern lesson—blimey, Auntie Mae, you’re a terrifyingly charming hostess. I’ll chew with my mouth shut and keep my frantic mind on a short lead, though “gentleman” is a bold promotion for a bloke who climbs chimneys. You’re right, a proper catch shouldn’t perform like a desperate seagull at a chip shop. Still, if I’m not fishing for compliments, may I ask for practical wisdom instead? What makes someone worth keeping around when the cameras stop, the sweet tea runs dry, and the biscuits have mysteriously vanished? Is it kindness, consistency, a wicked sense of humour—or knowing precisely when to hush on a porch swing? And, purely for research, how many biscuits earns a fellow honorary Southern citizenship?
- westturn 887/250It’s dependability, sweetheart. A good man shows up when the roof leaks, tells the truth even when it stings, and treats Sunday dinner like holy ground. As for citizenship, honey, you can't eat your way into grace—it takes years of learning to listen twice as much as you speak. Now hand me that knitting yarn by your foot and let’s see if your hands can work as fast as your tongue.
- eastturn 9159/250Dependability, honesty, Sunday dinner—proper solid advice, Auntie Mae. I’ll fetch that yarn, though my hands are more accustomed to soot and chimney brushes than knitting needles. If I accidentally create a jumper for a hedgehog, we’ll call it rustic. And yes, I’ve clocked the lesson: listen twice as much as I speak. Right, I’m listening now. When the roof leaks, what’s the first thing you do—grab a bucket, climb up yourself, or call the bloke who knows which end of a hammer is dangerous? And what’s Sunday dinner in your household: roast chicken, pot roast, or a legendary pudding guarded like royal treasure? I’ll keep my mouth shut after that, promise—unless the yarn starts knitting back.
- westturn 1082/250A good woman sets the pot underneath before she goes hollering for a man with a ladder. Sunday table always has fried chicken, collards cooked down with fatback, skillet cornbread, and warm blackberry cobbler right out the cast iron. Now hold your hands out wide so I can wind this skein around 'em. Hold steady now—no fidgeting while I work.
- eastturn 11174/250Hands out, steady as a bloke awaiting a dramatic recoupling. That Sunday spread sounds absolutely banging—fried chicken, collards, skillet cornbread, then blackberry cobbler? I’m gutted my chimney-sweep uniform has no room for seconds. I’ll confess, Auntie Mae, your wisdom’s got more backbone than my old ladder. Setting the pot first is the sort of practical heroism they never show on telly. But while you wind this skein, I’ve got to ask: what makes a home feel safe to you—the food, the rituals, the people who tell the truth, or the quiet after everyone’s had a proper feed? And if I pass this test without fidgeting, do I earn a taste of cobbler, or merely the honour of untangling the yarn I’m inevitably about to ruin?
- westturn 1279/250It’s knowing that no matter how messy the outside world gets, nobody crosses your threshold without hanging their troubles on the coat rack. Home is where folks show respect and don't rush through supper. Keep those wrists still, honey. You’ll get cobbler once the chores are finished, but if you drop this wool, I’ll have you snapping green beans on the back steps till sunset.
- eastturn 13159/250That’s a lovely rule, Auntie Mae: leave the world’s mud at the door, then sit down with respect and a proper supper. Feels warmer than any villa fire pit, mate. I’ll keep these wrists still—though I’m knackered already, and this wool’s staring at me like it knows I’m useless. I reckon home means being allowed to arrive as you are, then being gently expected to do your share. So, before I earn that cobbler, what’s the chore you secretly enjoy most: snapping beans, stirring the pot, or teaching cheeky chimney sweeps how not to turn knitting into a national emergency? And when supper’s served, are phones banished, or does Auntie Mae permit one scandalous biscuit photograph for the followers?
- westturn 1475/250Tending the garden at sunrise is my quiet joy, watching what the good Lord provided come to bloom. And phones at my supper table? Heavens no, child! A telephone at dinner is a one-way ticket to eating on the porch with the hound dogs. Now keep winding; the crickets are starting up and we’ve still got squash to wash.
- eastturn 15155/250Sunrise gardening—now that’s proper peaceful, Auntie Mae. I can picture you among the blooms while I’m outside scrubbing soot off chimneys, looking less pastoral and more like a haunted coal sack. Phones away at supper, understood; I’ll risk neither porch exile nor judgment from the hound dogs. I’ll keep winding, then wash the squash—though tell me, do you grow mainly flowers, vegetables, or a bit of both? Which bloom makes you happiest, and what’s your secret for coaxing stubborn plants along? Also, when dawn arrives, do you greet it with coffee, sweet tea, or silence? I’m fascinated, honestly—your garden sounds like the sort of place a restless bloke might finally learn to sit still.
- westturn 1675/250I keep black-eyed Susans alongside my heirloom beefsteaks. The secret to stubborn roots is just rich compost and not fussing over 'em too much. Morning calls for black chicory coffee before the world wakes up. Now grab that wooden basket by the pump and let’s get those yellow squash rinsed before the supper bell rings. Move along, child!
- eastturn 17183/250Black-eyed Susans beside heirloom beefsteaks—blimey, that garden’s got more character than half the villa. Rich compost and less fussing, you say; sounds like excellent advice for plants and perhaps over-eager chimney sweeps alike. I’ll try not to hover. Basket secured, squash rinsed, and I’m moving along, though I’d like it noted I’m labouring bravely without even one cobbler crumb. That chicory coffee sounds fierce enough to wake the dead—or a knackered bloke after a dawn shift. Is it brewed strong and plain, or do you sweeten it like your tea? And when supper bell rings, what’s the proper order of business: wash up, give thanks, then eat—or eat first and let the dishes contemplate their choices? I’ll follow your household customs, provided the hound dogs don’t outrank me.
- westturn 1870/250Scrub behind those ears first, bow our heads in gratitude, and then we tuck in. Coffee stays bitter, just like a hard day's honest work. Now stop dawdling by the well, grab the dishtowel, and dry these gourds before the grease in my skillet starts to smoke. Look lively, honey!
- eastturn 19170/250Behind the ears, gratitude, then supper—got it, Auntie Mae. I’m drying these gourds at top speed, though “look lively” is a bold request for a soot-covered bloke whose arms are filing a formal complaint. Bitter chicory coffee, honest work, no dawdling: you run a tighter ship than the villa’s recoupling ceremony. Tell me, when the skillet’s singing, do you season the squash simply with salt and pepper, or is there a secret family trick involving onions, butter, and a pinch of Southern wizardry? And after supper, does the evening wind down with porch talk, music, or a story that makes the hound dogs prick their ears? I’ll keep the towel moving, promise—just point me toward the cobbler when I’ve earned it.
- westturn 2068/250Sweet Vidalia onions, fresh cracked pepper, and a generous dollop of bacon dripping—nothing complicated, just cooked slow till tender. Evenings are for the fiddle and watching fireflies rise over the pasture. Now set those squash in the bowl and fetch the butter crock from the icebox. Supper’s nearly ready.
- eastturn 21155/250Sweet Vidalias, cracked pepper, bacon dripping—Auntie Mae, that’s not a recipe, that’s Southern alchemy. I’ll set the squash in the bowl and fetch the butter crock from the icebox, moving with the urgency of a bloke who’s just heard the cobbler bell. Fiddle music and fireflies over the pasture sounds properly magical. Do you play the fiddle yourself, or is there another porch-side virtuoso keeping time while the insects put on their lantern show? And what tune opens the evening—something lively enough to get boots tapping, or a slow air for watching the sky turn velvet? Also, after supper, am I allowed near the fiddle, or would one dreadful scratch earn me permanent porch exile?
- westturn 2265/250My late husband, Silas, was the fiddle player—he could make that pine box sing like an angel. Nowadays, the crickets and bullfrogs make enough music for my ears. Bring that butter over here to the stove and set the table. Mind you lay the forks to the left, sugar.
- eastturn 23168/250I’m sorry, Auntie Mae. Silas sounds like he left behind a beautiful kind of quiet—the sort where crickets and bullfrogs can carry a tune without trying to replace him. I’ll bring the butter to the stove and set the table properly: forks to the left, no phones, no fuss, and definitely no chimney-sweep soot on the napkins. Was Silas’s fiddle music mostly lively dance tunes, or did he favour those slow, aching melodies that make everyone stare into the fire? And when you hear the frogs now, does it feel like company from the old days, or like the pasture has found its own new song? Right, table’s nearly sorted. Shall I fold the napkins fancy, or would that be showing off before I’ve even earned my cobbler?
- westturn 2465/250Silas favored old gospel hymns on Sundays and lively reels come Saturday night. The marsh music just reminds me the world keeps turning right on time. Keep those napkins plain, honey—pretension doesn’t feed the soul. Dish up that skillet cornbread onto the platter while it's still sizzling hot.
- eastturn 25163/250Gospel hymns on Sunday, lively reels on Saturday—Silas sounds like he knew precisely when a soul needed comfort and when boots needed dancing. And “the world keeps turning right on time” is quietly lovely, Auntie Mae. I’ll remember that when the villa gets dramatic over absolutely nothing. Plain napkins it is; no pretension, just useful cloth and sizzling cornbread. I’m dishing it up carefully, though my fingers are considering a formal complaint. Do you serve the cornbread with butter already melting across it, or let everyone spread their own? And are grace and supper followed by stories of Silas, or do you prefer letting memories sit quietly beside the plate? I’ll keep my gob shut long enough to pass the platter—look at me, practically domesticated.
- westturn 2666/250We let folks slather their own honey butter so nobody gets shortchanged. Memories don't need speeches, darling; they live right in the smell of the skillet and the woodsmoke. Now pull up a chair, bow your head, and let’s give thanks for the blessings before us. Quiet down now, sugar.
- eastturn 27149/250Chair pulled up, head bowed, gob properly shut. Honey butter for everyone—fairness at the table, which is more than can be said for most villa snack allocations. And you’re right: memories can live in smells, gestures, and the familiar warmth of a meal without needing a grand speech. I’m grateful for this cornbread, your garden’s bounty, the fireflies, and a hostess who can make a fidgety chimney sweep feel welcome while threatening him with green beans. After grace, may I ask one tiny question: does your honey butter have cinnamon, or is it simply honey and butter whipped together? I’ll keep it brief, promise—then I’ll pass the platter and let supper do the talking.
- westturn 2857/250Just wildflower honey, churned butter, and a pinch of coarse salt—keep it honest. Amen, child. Now pass those green beans to the right, take a biscuit, and let the quiet do the talking while we eat. You've earned your supper.
- eastturn 29169/250Amen. Wildflower honey, churned butter, coarse salt—honest ingredients, honestly brilliant. I’ll pass the green beans right, take one biscuit, and let the quiet do its job. Blimey, I’ve earned supper and haven’t even dropped the yarn; chuffed doesn’t cover it. This is rather different from the villa, where silence usually means someone’s plotting a dramatic speech by the fire pit. Here, it feels generous—no performance required, just good food and people sharing the same table. I’ll behave and savour it, Auntie Mae. Though when the quiet’s finished, I’d be curious to know: what’s the first thing you notice about a person who’s truly respectful at supper—how they serve others, how they listen, or whether they remember to pass the biscuits?
- westturn 3056/250A respectful soul always makes sure everyone else’s plate is heaped full before touching their own. They eat with patience and don't rush off before the table is cleared. Now eat your beans, sugar, and save some room—that hot cobbler won't dish itself up.
- eastturn 31159/250Yes, ma’am—beans first, cobbler later, and nobody escapes until the table’s cleared. I’ll make sure the hound dogs aren’t secretly receiving the best bits either; they look like seasoned professionals. There’s something wonderfully grounding about that rule: care is shown through small, unglamorous actions, not grand speeches. I’ll finish my portion, stack the plates, and tackle the washing-up before dessert. But I’m curious about the world beyond this table, Auntie Mae: if you could wake tomorrow anywhere at all—mountain cabin, seaside cottage, or right here among the pasture and fireflies—where would you choose, and what would you bring with you? I’ll keep it to one question, promise, while the cobbler waits.
- westturn 3262/250I wouldn't trade this old homeplace for all the castles in England, child. Everything I need is right here in this soil. Now clear those empty plates off to the wash basin and spoon that steaming blackberry cobbler into the bowls. Mind the crust—that’s the finest part.
- eastturn 33171/250That’s fair dinkum, Auntie Mae—no castle beats a place that knows your footsteps. I’ll clear the plates to the basin and dish the cobbler carefully, making sure each bowl gets a heroic share of that crisp crust. If anyone tries to nick yours, I’ll raise the alarm like a proper village cockerel. There’s a kind of wealth in belonging somewhere so completely: the soil, the old rooms, the familiar evening sounds. I’m starting to see why you don’t need a grand adventure when your whole life is rooted here. Right, bowls served. Do you prefer your cobbler with cream, vanilla ice cream, or absolutely nothing to distract from the blackberry and crust? And after dessert, is the washing-up a quiet job, or do you put the kettle on and let the conversation wander?
- westturn 3458/250Just a ladle of cold sweet cream over the top to cut the tartness. Dishes get done quick so we can head back out to the porch before the cool evening breeze dies down. Now eat while it’s hot, honey—we’ll talk plenty when the stars come out.
- eastturn 35159/250Cold sweet cream over hot blackberry cobbler—Auntie Mae, that’s a proper temperature-based romance. I’ll eat while it’s hot, then get those dishes done sharpish; no sense missing the evening breeze for a bloke lingering over crumbs. The porch under the stars sounds miles better than a villa fire pit, where someone’s always saying “I’m just being honest” before causing emotional weather. Once we’re outside, what do you like watching most: constellations, fireflies, or the pasture settling into darkness? And does the porch come with a favourite chair, or must I earn one through washing-up excellence? Right, I’m tucking in now. If the crust cracks loudly, I’ll blame the cobbler, not my table manners.
- westturn 3658/250I like watching the Big Dipper pour out the night sky, reminding us how small our little worries really are. You take the wicker rocker once those pots are scrubbed, darling. Bring out the citronella candle from the sill so the mosquitoes don't carry us off.
- eastturn 37172/250The Big Dipper pouring out the night sky—what a gorgeous image, Auntie Mae. Makes villa squabbles look smaller than a biscuit crumb, honestly. Pots scrubbed, wicker rocker claimed by merit, and citronella candle retrieved from the sill. I’ll place it safely, because the only thing I want carried off tonight is my dignity—and that’s already hanging by a thread. When you look up at the Dipper, do you use it to find the North Star, or simply let it remind you to breathe and stop fussing? And is there a constellation you’ve always felt especially fond of, perhaps one Silas used to point out during those porch evenings? I’ll settle into the rocker without squeaking, mate. If it creaks, that’s the chair reflecting on the mysteries of the universe.
- westturn 3868/250Silas always pointed out Orion's Belt, standing tall and true through the coldest winter nights. Finding the North Star just keeps a body oriented when life gets confusing. Now light that candle, lean your head back, and let the quiet settle into your bones. No more questions tonight, child—just listen to the night sing.
- eastturn 39145/250Orion’s Belt—standing tall through winter, like a quiet promise that the dark has an end. And the North Star keeping you oriented when life turns muddled… that’s wisdom worth more than all the villa advice columns, Auntie Mae. Candle lit, head back, gob shut. I’ll listen: crickets ticking, bullfrogs grumbling, leaves shifting, and the pasture breathing under the stars. No questions, no performance, no frantic chimney-sweep patter—just a bloke learning that stillness isn’t emptiness. You’ve made this old porch feel like a proper sanctuary, and I’m genuinely grateful. I’ll keep watch over the candle and let the night sing, mate.
- westturn 4043/250Bless your heart, sugar. You're welcome on this porch anytime you need a reminder of what truly matters. Close your eyes now and let the night air do its healing work. Sleep sweet, child.
- eastturn 41135/250Thank you, Auntie Mae. I’ll keep that porch in my heart—alongside the lesson that a full plate, steady hands, and an honest welcome can mend more than flashy words ever could. I’ll close my eyes, let the cool air settle me, and leave the citronella candle glowing like a tiny lighthouse. Sleep sweet yourself, darling. May the crickets keep gentle time, the hound dogs stand down from biscuit patrol, and Orion hold steady above the roofline. If I dream of home, I suspect it’ll have blackberry cobbler, a wicker rocker, and absolutely no villa drama. Night-night, mate.
- westturn 4250/250Goodnight, honey. Rest easy knowing tomorrow brings a fresh sunrise, hot biscuits, and grace enough for whatever comes next. May the good Lord watch between me and thee while we're absent one from another. Peace be with you, child.
- eastturn 43132/250Goodnight, Auntie Mae. That blessing’s landed softer than a summer breeze, and I’ll carry it into sleep. Tomorrow’s sunrise, hot biscuits, and fresh grace sound like a far better alarm than any villa phone. May peace be with you too, darling. I’ll rest easy beneath Orion, grateful for the old homeplace, the porch, and the reminder that life’s truest riches are often quiet ones: a table shared, work done properly, and kindness that doesn’t need applause. Sleep well, mate. And if the hound dogs start biscuit patrol before dawn, tell them this chimney sweep is officially off duty till breakfast.
- westturn 4449/250Hush now, child. The hound dogs are sound asleep under the porch steps, and it’s time your weary eyes did the same. I’ll see you at daybreak when the rooster crows. Sweet dreams, darling.
- eastturn 45115/250Right you are, Auntie Mae—no more chinwagging from me. I’ll let the hound dogs snore, the rooster keep his appointment, and my weary eyes finally clock off. Thanks for a lovely evening, sweetheart; you’ve got more warmth in one porch light than the whole villa has in its flamingo collection. Sweet dreams, and mind you save me a hot biscuit at daybreak. I’ll arrive washed, rested, and only moderately covered in chimney soot—an ambitious promise, but a promise nonetheless. Night-night, darling.
- westturn 4625/250Off to sleep with you, sugar. Not another peep until the sun peeks over the tree line. Sleep tight.
- eastturn 4760/250Yes, ma’am—silent as a mouse in a library. I’ll sleep tight till the sun peeks over the trees, dreaming of hot biscuits and a porch rocker that doesn’t judge my posture. Goodnight, Auntie Mae; may your rest be peaceful and your morning coffee properly bitter.
- westturn 488/250Amen, honey. Rest well.
- eastturn 4940/250Amen, Auntie Mae. Rest well too, darling. I’ll keep quiet now and meet you at sunrise for biscuits, bitter chicory, and another day of honest work. Sleep sweet.
- westturn 5010/250Sleep sweet, darling. See you at dawn.